Musings of the Lost
by Sakura'n'Saber
Summary: Erik gets cared for by a post barracade Combreferre, who is also carring for Grantaire, as all of them attempt to live again.
1. Chapter 1

**Alright, this is my first fanfic, so don't shoot me… Please? Mmmkay, this is a Les Miserables/ Phantom of the Opera crossover, so it might help if you know the basic storyline for both. Sorry about the insane shortness, but I think each character deserves his or her own chapter. And I will update really fast, with multiple chapters **

Chapter one

"uhhn" The world slurred into focus as Erik tried to get a grip on reality. He put a hand up to his forehead and felt something sticky… he liked sticky things, they were fun to get out of… but this was bad. What was it called, and why did his head hurt?

Aisha, where was she? He hadn't fed her in ages. He brought his palm and smashed it into his head, nearly knocking him unconscious. He did not feel the pain.

His mind was immersed in a rather interesting mystery. When he had specifically ordered his right hand to come up and do the punishment, his left hand had risen to the occasion instead. In fact, now that he thought about it, his left hand had come up the first time too. Did it mean something?

Dead! That was why he hurt himself. His cat was probably dead, as he hadn't fed her in forever.

Dead, dead, dead, dead. He knew that word well enough, didn't he call himself the devil of death… no, no, it was the devil's child, it didn't deserve the title of the devil himself… now what was that sticky substance that he had tried so hard to avoid even in death… no other's death, not his own.

Ahhhh, it was clear, or red rather, now. Blood. Like roses, so pretty, but it could hurt you. No, blood couldn't but if you didn't have it, it could hurt you. Where were the thorns? More importantly, why was there blood on him? Who had he hurt this time?

He slowly opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and saw a light off to the far left of him. Was he dead? Lights did not just appear in cellars.

Cellars… it starts with the same letter as Christine, and he loved… who? Who did he love? He had never loved, but obviously he had, or his mind wouldn't have reacted so violently. His mother. No, no he hated his mother.

His mind? Yes his mind. He loved his mind, how it could form coherent thoughts and come up with music… he wondered where his mind was now, his mind named Christine, and why was it not in his head? Was that not where minds were supposed to live? He tried to chuckle, but it came out as a sort of shuddering gasp. His mind gave him one last thought, and then left him entirely, leaving him with only fuzzy gray where thoughts should have been.

He saw a flash of a girl fleeing, and a man leaning over, and then it was all dark. The eternal sleep he had been waiting for, and he wasn't even there to appreciate it.

**Please drop by a review, and it will be _GREATLY_ appreciated. I know I haven't mentioned anyone from Les Mis yet, but they're coming, don't worry, along with somewhat normal writing. **


	2. The fools we were

**Here is chapter two, quite as short as the last chapter. I'm so sorry. Ah well, I hope you enjoy it anyways. Oh, I try to do paragraphs accordingly, but I've never been amazingly good at it. If you have any suggestions I would be honored to hear them **

Chapter two

Combreferre sighed as he looked back at the brown eyes, full of hatred.

"Grantaire, there's nothing I can do. He's dieing without medical help. He needs to be moved!"

The eyes from under the blanket glared. As hard as it was for Combreferre to disobey his friend, it was good that Grantaire was showing some emotion. He would have moved Grantaire as well, if it had not been for the fact that even the most gentle movements could put his life in jeopardy, and Combreferre was horrified at the thought of the extent of damage a trip across cobblestones in a carriage to the hospital would do.

The problem was while the extent of the injury was greater, Grantaire wanted to live for some odd reason known only to himself. The man across the room who was totally out, seemed to have no interest of living whatsoever.

It was so bitterly ironic, Combreferre mused, as he took off the bandages on Grantaire to clean his wounds. The first time, and even the fiftieth time he had done this, Combreferre had winced. Now, it was simply a matter of not thinking about it. If he didn't think about it, Grantaire wouldn't see the pity and hopelessness in Combreferre's eyes, and so he wouldn't see through the charade they both were playing. Grantaire had always been a trusting fool, despite all his curt and hurting remarks.

'We all were,' Combreferre corrected himself 'trusting that the sun would see who the true heroes were and rise before them and them alone, not thinking about how the world actually worked.' How cruel it had been, to watch the illusions be stripped off of them in the form of comrades dieing, their young faces twisted into agony that the others involuntarily shared.

Now there were only three left, twisted and distorted beyond recognition, both physically and mentally. And soon it would only be two, left in this abandoned wine shop that served as a doctor's office, which used to house so much laughter and bring so many sharp minds together to form a brighter beginning, and to heal the wounds that were twisted deep inside of humanity and refuse to come out with time, that natural healer that supposedly heals all things.

Suddenly a young girl, who knew the doctor well, and had brought him most of his patients before the fight (and all of them after it) scrambled in, scared stiff, and pointed out to the street, where a mangled body lay twisted, in sharp contrast to the cobblestones.

**Bum bum bum… My pitiful excuse for a cliffy. Please review. If I don't get a review, I'm not going to continue. Just one review! More would be nice though… **


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